


The Oak and the Reed

by missbecky



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since Xandar, there have been times when Drax has questioned his role in the Guardians of the Galaxy, and the wisdom of following someone like Peter Quill. But when he and Peter are abducted by unscrupulous slavers, Drax discovers some humbling truths about his friend, and what it means to be truly strong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oak and the Reed

**Author's Note:**

> With grateful thanks to [laireshi](http://www.laireshi.tumblr.com).

It might be the same bar they visited on their first trip to Knowhere, or it might not be. Drax's memory of that place is hazy and tinted blue, like the liquor he indulged in that night. The particulars don't really matter, though. Wherever it is, he and Peter have been stuck in this bar for the past two hours with nothing to do except drink.

Their contact isn't going to show. That is obvious by now. They've never actually seen him – or her, it could be female, as Gamora has pointed out – except as a shadowy figure on the computer screen. The contact has promised them information about the warlord who rules the refugee camps on Thelos with an iron fist, making those poor people's lives miserable. It's difficult for him (or her) to get away, though, so they have been told to be patient and wait.

Waiting is not something Drax is good at.

Fortunately, drinking is. Which means the evening has not been a complete waste of time. There has been plenty of alcohol, along with plenty of entertainment. If watching people get drunk and do stupid things counts as entertainment.

The bar is very crowded; drinks aren't the only things that are plentiful tonight. For the past hour they have been sharing their table with two men who claim to be right here from Knowhere, which is of course a lie, because nobody actually lives here. Farris and Marris, they call themselves, one short and one tall, and Drax is pretty sure he's got their names mixed up, he's been drinking so much. Also he's pretty sure that their names are a lie, too. That dishonesty hasn't stopped either him or Peter from letting Farris and Marris buy drinks for them, though.

Whatever their real names are, Farris and Marris are good company, with lots of funny stories about the things they've seen on Knowhere. Best of all, they seem to have bottomless pockets. They order round after round, and wave off Peter's half-hearted attempts to return the favor. Drax accepts each drink with a solemn thank-you, which seems to please his new friends. He is still certain that they are being dishonest, but since he could easily flatten both of them without breaking a sweat, he isn't really too worried about it.

He forgets, though, that his wife Hovat used to have a saying. _If it seems too good to be true, ask yourself why that is._

By the time he finally remembers that his dear wife was always right, it's far too late.

****

He wakes up to a pounding headache, the clouded mind that only comes from heavy drugs, and the terribly familiar feeling of steel shackles about his wrists.

Rage surges through him, banishing most of the drugged mists from his brain. He struggles to open his eyes and manages it on the third attempt. Bright light spears his eyes and he winces them closed again, pain spiking through his skull.

That one brief look is enough to see that he is alone in this room. The realization fuels his anger and simultaneously fills him with worry. Where is Quill? What have they done to him?

He can't do anything about Peter right now, though. He focuses instead on the shackles, exerting all his strength to break them. His hands are secured behind his back, and he is lying on his stomach, which makes the task harder – but not impossible. Even drugged as he is, he should be able to do this.

But the cuffs do not break. They remain in place, heavy steel holding him fast. And for the first time, Drax feels… Not fear, not that. But uncertainty, yes. This is not supposed to happen. He is not supposed to be taken so easily, his mind so hazy that he can't even remember what happened in between that last round of drinks and waking up in this place.

Most of all he is not supposed to be shackled and chained like this. All his great strength is for nothing now, and he doesn't know what to do with that. He can't remember the last time he felt so physically helpless. It's a terrible feeling, and he tries again to break the cuffs, straining his entire body until heated warmth breaks out on his skin from burst capillaries. And still the steel remains locked about his wrists.

Bested for now, Drax falls still. He can do this, he tells himself. He just needs to rest for a little bit. Gather his strength and try again when more of the drug has left his system.

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm his anger. It's a pointless waste of time, though. He is angry. Very angry. It gets worse when he realizes that not only has he been drugged and kidnapped, he has been robbed. His boots and knives are gone. His belt and money are gone.

Whoever has done this to him – and he has a pretty good idea who it is – they will pay.

He turns his head carefully so his other cheek rests on the ground, and slowly opens his eyes. This time the light is bearable. He looks around as best he can from his position on the floor. The room he currently occupies is small, with only one door set in the far wall. The walls are metal, and dented in several different places, as though other people have woken to find themselves drugged and chained up, only to vent their frustration on the very walls that hold them.

He is strongly considering doing this very thing himself when the door opens. Immediately he closes his eyes, obeying some instinct he doesn't totally understand.

Two sets of footsteps enter. There is another sound, too, the unmistakable noise of something – or someone – being dragged. Drax dares to half-open one eye, the one closest to the floor, and peek at what is happening.

Farris and Marris, who happily bought him drinks all night, don't look so cheerful anymore. Right now, in fact, they look hot and sweaty. They are both armed with electric clubs, not unlike the ones the Nova guards carried in the Kyln. Between them, they are dragging Peter Quill, their hands latched onto his upper arms. He is still unconscious from the drug; his head hangs low and his body is boneless as they haul him into the room. Like Drax his hands are cuffed behind his back, and he too has been robbed of all his possessions except his clothing.

Another flare of rage burns through Drax's veins. He remains still, though.

Farris and Marris stop when they are still a couple feet away. They do not look at Drax. They drop Peter facefirst onto the floor without even looking, and Drax tenses up, waiting for the ugly crack of bone as Peter's nose breaks. But he doesn't hear it, thankfully, which might just be the first thing all evening that's gone in their favor.

The two men stand up straight. One of them – the tall one, which means it's Farris – arms sweat off his forehead. Their heads turn, and Drax shuts his one eye.

The silence draws out. Finally Marris, the short one, says, "Told you he'd be out for hours."

"Whatever," says Farris. He was the first one to offer to buy them a drink. He will also be the first one Drax kills. "Let's go. Israh's gonna want to know what we found."

"I need a drink," complains Marris.

"Work first, drink later," snaps Farris, which only confirms Drax's suspicion that they were somehow pouring out all those drinks onto the floor, only pretending to join their new friends in each new round as it was ordered.

Footsteps walk away. The door opens and closes. Drax dares to open his eyes.

He blinks a little in shock then, because Peter is staring right at him. And before Drax can even draw in a breath to say something, he winks.

Drax just stares. He never would have guessed that Peter was faking. He knows he could never have maintained that limp pretense of unconsciousness while being dragged like that, and then dropped so unceremoniously. His respect for his friend goes up several notches.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

"Well," Peter says thoughtfully. "I've had better hangovers before. But then again, I've also had worse." He grins, an expression only slightly marred by the fact that Drax can only see half his face.

Drax makes no response to this idiotic comment. Now that he can do so without being observed, he pulls at the shackles again, grunting with the effort.

"I wouldn't bother," Peter says.

This seemingly calm acceptance of his fate only fuels Drax's anger. Sometimes he thinks he will never understand Peter Quill. It's not just his incomprehensible use of language, or his maddening way of bursting into song at the most inappropriate times. It's things like this, this cowardly surrender that goes against everything he thought Quill believed in.

"You would meekly accept imprisonment?" he demands. His shoulders are starting to hurt from being bound like this for so long. Despite that, he throws himself against the shackles with every ounce of strength he can muster. He has to break free. He _has_ to.

"There is nothing meek about me, thank you very much," Peter says. "I thought you knew that already."

"I do not think I know you at all," Drax says.

"What?" Peter demands. "I heard that, you know." 

"I did not doubt that you would," he mutters.

"What's that supposed to mean, anyway?" Peter says. He's moving his hands now, not quite trying to break free like Drax is, although the movements do seem to be deliberate.

"It means that I cannot understand why you counsel submission at a time like this," Drax growls. "Just because you lack the strength to break your bonds does not mean I should do the same."

"That's not what I…" Peter sighs. "Forget it." He twists one arm slightly, gasping a little as though the motion hurts. Drax catches a glimpse of something small and metallic in his hand, then it is gone from view. "Anyway, did you happen to hear our new friends mention Israh?"

This is serious enough that Drax finally ceases his efforts to break the cuffs. "I did," he says.

"Then you know who these guys are working for," Peter says.

"Yes," Drax says. "I do."

Their contact was never coming. He sees that now. He also sees how masterfully that person manipulated the Guardians, asking them to divide into two groups, saying that he (or she) could only make it to one of two meeting spots, both very public places. They told the contact where they would be and when, and in doing so, doomed themselves.

On the other side of Knowhere, in another seedy bar, Rocket and Gamora are probably watching the doors with growing impatience. Or maybe they've already left, having decided that the contact isn't going to show. Maybe he and Peter were unconscious longer than he thought. Maybe when they didn't check in, Gamora insisted that Rocket come with her to this side of town to search for them.

Maybe help is on the way.

"We've been played, my friend," Peter says.

"No one plays me," Drax retorts automatically – even though he knows it's not true. Not in this instance, at least.

Israh, their captors mentioned. And that is one name Drax knows very well. Israh is the warlord who rules Thelos and the refugee camps the Guardians were supposedly being hired to protect. Israh also just so happens to rule over territory that includes several mines, where workers indentured to him toil away day and night under brutal conditions in order to unearth the costly and rare gemstones found in those mines.

He knows now why they were targeted, why they have been drugged and kidnapped. Israh and his mines are infamous in this quadrant of the galaxy. Most workers don't last more than a month out there. He and Peter haven't been targeted because they are members of the Guardians of the Galaxy. They have been targeted because they are strong and healthy, because they can be put to work.

The very idea makes Drax want to bellow with rage. He has spent more than his fair share of time in various prisons across the galaxy, but none of them can compare to the backbreaking labor that awaits him should he not manage to escape, and soon. And he has no illusions about his fate if he should fail here. He's strong enough that he might survive for as long as six months. Peter, on the other hand, will last maybe a month. If he's lucky.

"We must free ourselves," Drax says insistently. Peter will never be strong enough to break free on his own, so he must be the one to do it. He's the only one who can. He rocks back and forth on his stomach once, twice, and manages to roll onto his side. From there it's fairly easy to rise onto his knees. Pain bolts through his head at the sudden movement, but it's worth it just to be upright again.

"Would you just relax," Peter says. "I got this."

If his hands weren't bound, if they weren't trapped in this hellish situation together, Drax would be sorely tempted to knock Peter into the wall and add a new dent to the décor in here. Instead he snaps, "I will not relax! And I will not surrender without a fight!"

"Did I mention surrender?" Peter says. He sounds annoyed. "I don't remember doing that. In fact, I'm pretty sure the word 'surrender' isn't even in my vocabulary."

Drax glares. "You have just proved otherwise," he says stiffly.

Peter just sighs.

Despite the fact that he seems to be advocating surrender, Peter is definitely up to something. Drax watches him with narrow eyes. He recognizes that metallic object now, although he can't fathom how Quill managed to find a lock pick under these circumstances. Unlocking the shackles is apparently not an easy task, however, if the strained look on Peter's face is anything to go by. Although Drax is willing to concede that it could just be the lingering effect of all that alcohol combined with whatever drugs Farris and Marris gave them.

He should offer to help, but he doesn't know what he could do. It's a sobering realization, and it fills him with a unique sense of helplessness. His strength has always been an asset, something he could rely on to get him out of a bad situation. Even in prisons like the Kyln, he used his physical stature to create a metaphysical one, and ensure that nobody assaulted him.

Now his great strength has failed. Everything he has tried has been in vain. His fate is in the hands of a liar and a thief, and there is not one thing Drax can do about it.

There is a faint clicking noise, and Peter says, "Ah," with great satisfaction. He twists his wrist, and his left hand slides free from the shackle. He bring his arm down and starts to stand up.

And across the room, the door opens.

Drax doesn't even think. Their captors are back, and Peter is frozen on one knee, closest to the door and terribly helpless right now.

So Drax does the only thing he can. He protects his friend.

He thrusts himself to his feet, roaring out all his fury and frustration. He sees the blank shock on the faces of the two men who dared to abduct them, and then he sees only the red rage as it overcomes him.

Even with his hands shackled behind him, he is a force to be reckoned with. He headbutts Marris and sends him flying. He feels the shock as Farris presses an electrified club into his side, but it doesn't slow him down at all.

This is what he was made for.

Someone shouts, a voice that rises above his own unending bellow. He is shocked again, then Farris goes down hard from a shoulder to the face, his club rolling out of his lax hand and across the floor. Drax kicks him brutally in the ribs to make sure he stays down, launches himself at Marris, and is promptly tackled from behind.

 _Reinforcements,_ he has time to realize, men who are paid to guard the secrets of this place. And then there is no more time to think. They are on him, punching and kicking and shocking him with their clubs, and there is only the rage of battle.

That they dare! That they think they can still take him! In grim silence now, he fights on, but there are many of them, and he has been drinking heavily all night and drugged, and his hands are still bound behind him. He might proudly claim the title of Destroyer, but even he has his limits.

He can feel his legs wanting to buckle. He is going down, succumbing, whether he wants to or not.

And then the air suddenly crackles with electricity, blue lightning that arcs from one guard to another, jumping from one man to the next with astonishing speed. As it encompasses each man, they scream and writhe in pain and then drop unconscious to the floor. The lightning spears through Drax too, and he cries out with the pain of it, but his greater size and the bloodlust of fury sustains him, and he does not fall.

He turns, swaying a little as he does, and sees Peter Quill standing there, holding one of the electric clubs in his free hand. Quill gives him a little wave with his free hand. The remaining cuff is still locked about his wrist, and the empty shackle dangles loosely. "Hi," he says.

Drax blinks and stares. He's never seen such a thing before; he didn't even know those clubs could be turned into such a fine ranged weapon. "How did you do that?" he croaks.

Peter hefts the club and smirks at him. "Oh, I know a few tricks."

Drax nods. He sees now that the implant that normally resides behind Peter's ear has been pulled apart; a few short wires curl into thin air. He wonders how much of the implant's functions are still in working order. "It is a fine weapon," he says.

"Yeah," Peter says. "But I still want my stuff back." It's obvious he's not thinking about his blasters, though, or the mask that lets him breathe in the vacuum of space. He only wants the music he always carries in his knapsack.

Drax will settle for having his freedom back, although he would also like his boots and his daggers. He turns around. "Uncuff me," he says.

"You're welcome," Peter says, which is a bit strange because Drax has not thanked him yet. 

"I will thank you when we are free of this wretched place," he mutters.

"You could do it now, too," Peter says. "I'm just saying."

He could. And he should. But he feels oddly ashamed of himself, uncomfortable with his failures on this night. He believed Peter was weak and craven for giving in, but in truth _he_ was the one who came closest to despairing over their situation. He needs a little time before he can find the proper grace needed to thank Peter and truly mean it.

He clenches his hands into tight fists, eager to be free of the cuffs. Peter drops the club to the floor and comes up behind him.

And from a false pretense of his own, the tall kidnapper named Farris rises from the floor. His face is contorted with hatred and determination as he sways on his knees, blood streaking down his forehead where one of Drax's kicks split his skull.

"Got you," the man whispers as he latches onto Peter's free hand. And this time Drax _does_ hear the sharp crack of breaking bone.

Peter yells loudly. Drax whirls around, already shifting his weight so he can kick Farris.

There's no need. Even as he completes his turn, he watches as Peter whips his other hand around in a short but deadly arc. The steel shackle dangling from his wrist smashes into Farris's face, shattering his nose and spraying blood everywhere.

Farris screams in pain. As Drax lashes out with one foot, Peter reverses direction and bashes his fist into the man's face.

Long before he hits the floor, Farris is dead.

Together they stand there, unmoving. Drax eyes the other fallen men, making sure none of them are faking, either. Beside him, Peter breathes heavily, his injured hand cradled to his chest, blood slowly dripping from the empty shackle.

It's over now, truly over, and Drax is faced with the knowledge that he gravely wronged his friend tonight. From the first, he accused Peter of wanting to give in to their captors, and trying to persuade him to do the same. He thought Peter was weak, equating physical power with raw ability. He was too blinded by anger to see that there are different ways of showing strength and achieving victory.

He was wrong.

Since Xandar, there have been times when he has questioned his role in the Guardians of the Galaxy, and the wisdom of following someone like Peter Quill. He knows now that he will never doubt again. His eyes have been opened.

"Thank you," he says.

Peter turns to him. He has gone very pale, and sweat beads his forehead. His jaw is clenched in a way that's meant to show how stoic he is being, but actually just reveals how much he is hurting. " _Now_ you thank me? Are you kidding?"

"I would not joke about a thing like this," Drax says. He doesn't understand why his thanks have been rebuffed, although he knows Peter well enough by now to suspect that this is just one of those things that is lost in translation, and not a serious rejection.

"Just turn around," Peter says. In spite of their victory, he does not sound very pleased.

Drax turns around. "You fought bravely, even when you were injured. Are you badly hurt?"

"Well, that depends," Peter says. "Right now I'm going with not so much, but once the alcohol and whatever they drugged us with wears off? I'm thinking the answer is going to be hell yes."

"Then we must return to the Milano and heal you before that can happen," Drax says.

"That's the first sensible thing I've heard all night," Peter mutters as he fumbles one-handed at the cuffs about Drax's wrists. "And for the record, you? Are never allowed to get drunk again."

Drax doesn't know what record Peter is referring to, but he understands the meaning of the words all the same. It's true, he has a history of making terrible decisions when he's drunk. Like contacting Ronan and challenging him to a duel. Or letting strangers continue to buy him drinks even when he knows they are lying to him.

There is a click, and the shackle around Drax's left wrist comes undone. The relief of being able to bring his arms around is indescribable. Now that the bloodrush of battle is fading, he can feel the wounds he sustained during the fight. All of them are minor, but they add up. He too will appreciate access to the Milano's medical facilities.

He holds out his free hand. Peter gives him the lock pick, and Drax uses it first to release his own cuff, then the bloodied one that remains on Peter's wrist. He starts to hand it back, then hesitates.

This lock pick. Where did Quill get it? And why didn't he use it right away when he first woke up and discovered that he had been kidnapped? He could have removed his shackles at any time, so why the deception? Why pretend to be unconscious and let their captors drag him in here?

The answer is so obvious that it takes Drax a moment to realize it. Peter didn't make his escape on his own because he was waiting until he could save his friend.

_Until he could save me._

Because Peter Quill doesn't leave anyone behind. He didn't leave them when the Dark Aster was going down over Xandar, even though he was the only one who could have. And tonight he proved that he wouldn't leave Drax behind, even though it meant prolonging his own captivity.

And all Drax has done is accuse him of cowardice.

Shame burns within him. He can think of nothing appropriate to say, though, so he simply returns the lock pick. "That is a useful skill," he mumbles. "I would like to learn it."

Peter looks at him. "Can it wait until we get out of here?" he asks.

Surprised, Drax starts to say that of course it can, when he realizes that Peter is only joking. These days he's quicker to notice that humor than he used to be, but it still bothers him that it takes him a while to pick up on such a thing.

"Many things can wait until we get out of here," he says. Truly thanking Peter for saving him. Taking the time to reflect on everything he learned here tonight. Accepting that there are ways to achieve his goals that do not include brute strength.

He has much to learn, Drax thinks.

"Come, my friend," he says. "Let's go home."

Peter stoops to pick up the club he modified; he will need to take it apart to get back the parts he stole from his implant. And it's good to be armed, Drax thinks, as he does the same. There might be more guards in the halls, or surrounding whatever building they have been imprisoned in.

He's eager to find out, to put his new lessons to the test, to follow his leader and his friend.

Side by side, they step out into the hall.


End file.
